Metronome
by positivelynegative
Summary: Wilson keeps the metronome going. HouseWilson FRIENDSHIP. T for safety and feedback please! oneshot


Yea, don't own so don't sue annnnnnnd... yup. that's about it. i had fun with this one, sorry if it sucks, but i liked it. feedback is nice! and sorry if it confuses you! my style for this one, sorry.

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"I'm sorry. I didn't want it to end this way." 

Wilson looked up from his desk. House was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on the cane that had become a constant.

"What?"

House stayed at his spot by the door, genuine sorrow filling his words "I'm sorry."

Wilson stood, unsure of why Gregory House was

_...dying..._

apologizing. He walked around to the front of his desk, "What do you mean by-"

He stopped when blood began to flow from under House's sports jacket sleeve, twisting around the graceful fingers and falling, staining the carpet red. Wilson ran over to his friend, catching him as he began to fall into the ocean of blood that had begun to form underneath him, the cane snapping and falling before its owner.

"House!"

No response; only the dead stare. Wilson laid him on the floor, his own knee dipped in the crimson that continued to flow from the pale wrists. Grasping the slashed wrists firmly as he could, Wilson held the arms above House's head, "I need help in here!"

No help came. No nurses, no doctors, no curious passerby; nobody

_...cared..._

was there. The blood was flowing way to fast. There was too much, in a matter of seconds the cripple was turning the bloodless color of blue, the same as

_...death..._

his eyes.

Wilson's blood stained fingers let the limp hands drop and flew to the cold throat. There had to be a pulse... where was the pulse? He felt around the neck, surely he was just missing it... he had to be... just missing the pulse...

There was no rhythmic beat under his fingers; the metronome to House's life was at a standstill.

Wilson stood numbly and stumbled back, covering his screams with a red hand and hugging himself with the other. Revolted when he tasted his friend's metallic blood, he took another step backward, running into his hard wood desk and slamming his hand down hard. He felt the sting of glass across his palm and held his hand in front of his eyes, covering the body before him. His own blood trickled through House's, making

_…blood brothers… _

a thin, snakelike path.

He swallowed, hoping the saliva would moisten his dry throat. Slowly he lowered his hand and looked down at House's body, its hands laying limply near his head

_...waving goodbye..._

where they had fallen. The broken cane lay in the blood; seeming to be bleeding itself. Open blue eyes stared at the ceiling, death leaving a smooth film over the frozen iris.

Wilson was unaware of how many times the clock on the wall ticked, how many or if the hands went around the smooth silver face; the body before him held his unwavering gaze. What was left of House remained unmoving but Wilson could feel his body falling forward, the world becoming distorted; the wooden furniture dancing and the walls quivering. Only the body remained motionless; a strange sense of vertigo passed through Wilson as his world seemed to zone in on the haunted face of his best friend.

Wilson could swear he was hanging upside down, looking into House's face as the world spun round and round in a flash of dizzying colors and sounds. Finally it all stopped.

_...only House's face was moving..._

The lids blinked over dead eyes as blue lips began forming words. Wilson consentrated, trying to read what House was saying. Little by little, sounds came, forming words into two simple words:

_Save me._

Wilson jerked his head off his desk with a cry. He looked over the edge, no blood, no body. He looked at the silver clock on his wall, midnight. He moved his hand, but winced as a sting rolled up his arm.

His palm was bleeding.

He shot up and out of his office, running as fast as he could through the hospital and out to his car. House had gone home nine o clock that night.

Wilson gripped the steering wheel tightly, ignoring the

_...blood..._

pain coming from his cut and driving like a maniac toward House's apartment.

Finally his car screeched to a stop in front of House's apartment complex. He opened the door, not even bothering to turn the car off, and ran through the doors. Making a hard left he threw House's door open.

House's head could be seen over the couch's back. He didn't turn around when he heard the door bursting open, his attention was glued to the knife in his hands. Turning the knife handle around in his hands, he stared at his

_...blood..._

reflection. Bypassing the Vicodin, he reached for his glass and took a sip of the whiskey, wincing as it burned his throat.

Wilson came around to the front of the couch, nearly crying for joy when he saw the knife had only made a few shallow cuts. Gently he sat down beside his drunk friend and took the knife, setting it on the table. Silently, he set his hand on his friend's trembling shoulder left it there, his own

_...House's..._

blood staining his pants.

The metronome

_...life..._

would swing for another day.


End file.
